


Casualty

by Silvergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant only through S3, Canon divergent after Mary runs in TST, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John is a Good Friend, John is an even better lover, M/M, Mary died alone in Morocco, Parentlock, Sherlock Learns Teamwork, Sherlock and Sally Donovan collaborate, Sherlock is indeed not a machine, Trauma/comfort, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/pseuds/Silvergirl
Summary: Sherlock renders assistance at a hit-and-run and is left deeply shocked. When the accident turns into a case, John moves back in to 221b to help—and finds that Sherlock haswayoversold his image as an emotionless thinking machine
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 420
Kudos: 639
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Driver. Star. Tattoo. Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anyawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/gifts).



> Chapter One describes a hit-and-run, as un-graphically as I could manage. The rest of the chapters are gore-free.
> 
> Thank you, Anyawen, for winning me in the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction--I loved writing your plot bunny and interacting with you about it.
> 
> There is now a podfic of _Casualty_ by the matchless Podfixx:   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035497/chapters/57831493  
> Oh frabjous day!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _John. I need you. Can you come? Holborn and Southampton Row. SH_
> 
> — _Emergency? Case? JW_
> 
> — _Yes. No. I need you. SH_

Never quite at ease, never quite satisfied. Nothing to put his finger on, but somehow all the turmoil of the past year had left—not a roiling wake, not that, but an undertow. A suspicion that there was always something about to erupt out of seemingly calm water. Made it hard to concentrate, but also hard to relax, hard to shut things off and just be.

He’d always been observant, _obviously_. Always paid attention to his surroundings—things, places, people. (At least when he was out in the world; in the flat was a different matter, in the flat he used to be able to tune everything out.) During his years away that level of attention to detail had become hypervigilance. Obsessive, on the edge of fear-tinged.

This ... wasn’t that. This was something else, something new. And he didn’t, on the whole, approve of new states of mind. He’d enough trouble managing the ones he knew.

Leaving Saint Paul’s Cathedral on a sleepy city Sunday and stepping out onto the pavement, he performed his regular reconnaissance, so fast that no one looking would notice it happening at all. No ostentatious staring, no 360-degree survey, no narrowed eyes, nothing to show he was clocking everything from the bizarre to the predictable to the innocuous.

Twenty minutes later he was nearly a mile away and still uneasy, or at least off-kilter. There was nothing to attribute it to, that was the annoying thing. No one following him. Nothing visibly out of place. Except for John. John, and Watson. That was a constant ripple under the surface, certainly. After Mary had died, off in Morocco, they’d tried to pick up where they’d left off—as much as two different residences and a toddler allowed, at any rate. They had some cases together, and a few evenings in. Rosie had a cot next to John’s old bed upstairs, for when the evenings went late. But it wasn’t very settled, and consequently neither was he.

He paused at the kerb and looked up Southampton Row, quiet on an early spring Sunday, and started to turn into Holborn station. What stopped him was a freeze-frame of a trio of pedestrians scattering before a dark sedan hurtling toward the intersection, and one helmeted cyclist. The impact was hideous, the cyclist striking the windscreen with an indescribable sound—then propelled over the roof of the vehicle to land with cataclysmic force on the street behind. His gut turned to water but his legs carried him there in the time it took the speeding vehicle to disappear, tyres squealing, round the next corner.

He had no eyes for the other pedestrians clutching each other, equal parts horror at the hit-and-run and gratitude for their own escape. The figure on the macadam, supine and unmoving and terribly small, too small to be an adult, oh God no—but yes, an adult female, he could see as he knelt in the fast-spreading pool of blood. Early thirties, dark blonde, dressed like a uni student, the helmet coming apart around a face miraculously untouched.

The rest of her was ... not untouched. He couldn’t begin to assess the damage, the broken bones, almost certain internal injuries. It was overwhelming and he dared not move any part of her. He hadn’t the competence to do so, in any case. He raised his head and roared “Ambulance!”, saw the nearest pedestrian nodding furiously, already manipulating a mobile phone with shaking hands.

Looking back down he saw the victim’s eyes open, a series of fluttering tremors as she regained consciousness but before pain could come flooding in. He took off his glove and put his left hand to her face, the only part of her he thought he could safely touch, and spoke low and slowly.

“You’re hurt. An ambulance has been called. I’ll stay with you until they’re here.”

No response. Her stare was fixed, but not on him.

He remembered that trauma victims are more likely to respond to a question, to realise that something was required of them. “Do you understand?”

She made a sound then, not quite a word, but the tone seemed hopeful.

What wasn’t hopeful was the mass of blood spreading round them, which seemed to be pulsing from a deep gouge in her left thigh. Femoral artery. Too high on the leg for a tourniquet, but pressure might help. He warned her.

“You’re bleeding from your thigh. I’m going to apply pressure, try to slow it down.” _Ask a question, damn it_.

“May I do that?”

By now he’d been joined by one of the three pedestrians, a young woman with, he presumed, a strong stomach, as she didn’t look away from the ruin before them. Without looking at the newcomer he murmured, “Touch her face.” He hadn’t finished before the girl was on it, stroking gently and murmuring.

He folded his scarf into a packet, pressed it against the wound that was pumping out blood at a terrifying rate. He ran a quick calculation. Unless the ambulance was here within a minute or two and had a far more effective way to stanch this flow—she wouldn’t make it. Time to act as though that were the likely outcome.

“Whom should I call for you? To join us at the hospital, I mean. Can you tell me?”

The questioning wasn’t working as well, now. Her eyes were half-closed and her breathing was accelerating. He knew this stage: she was beginning to feel the pain, he was sure. 

_And it was good if she did; it’s the shock that would kill her, blood loss and then shock, he remembered Molly’s voice. When Mary shot him. But the pain—he couldn’t stand for this woman to feel it all now._

Halfway under her torso he saw what must be her mobile, protected by a very sturdy, very battered-looking case. He reached over her for it, activated it. Miracle: still functioning. Second miracle: no password. Contacts: only three, and no designated emergency number. _Fuck_.

“I have your mobile. Whom should I call? Can you tell me?”

This time she reacted, eyelids flickering, her head shifting just half an inch with the stranger’s hand steady on her cheek.

“W—W,” a puff of breath, then, “Warren.”

Thank God, Warren was one of the three numbers stored. The phone rang twice, then an anxious voice:

“Erica, oh thank God, I was starting to worry—”

He interrupted, trying for his calmest register. “I’m not Erica, I’m with her, though. There’s been a street accident, and I’m, we’re, waiting with her for help.” _Don’t say ambulance._

But the blood caught again at his attention and he could barely concentrate on what he was saying. If anything the bleeding was accelerating, his scarf was completely soaked through and the face of the victim, Erica now, was waxen-white against the black pavement.

“I can hear them coming, they must be close. Can you speak to her? Afterwards I’ll tell you where they’re taking her, so you can join her.” 

He struggled to keep talking neutrally over the rising repetitions of “oh my god oh my god is she okay tell me”:

“Please. Please, try to be calm. Erica wants to hear your voice. It won’t help her if you’re” (turning away and whispering) “ _panicking_. I’m going to put you on speaker now” ( _don’t say_ put the phone to her ear _that’ll make it worse_ ).

Placing the mobile beside what remained of the helmet, he said, “Here he is, Erica. Warren. You can talk to him.”

She said only, “Warren. Warren.” and began to jerk, one arm, both legs. He couldn’t tell if it was physical or mental anguish, or both, and he took her right hand. How strong her grasp, like a woman in full health. It hurt, how hard she was gripping his fingers.

_The preternatural strength of the dying: he should know. That night after Leinster Gardens. Holding it together through the agony in his chest to tell the medics what they needed to do to save his life._

“Warren. Driver. Suh. Suh.” She was panting now. “Star. Tattoo. Run. _Run_.”

The voice coming from the phone was weeping, trying to conceal it but undoubtedly weeping. “I love you. Heather, I love you. I’ll be there soon. _I love you_.”

The victim was speaking to the absent Warren, but staring at him. Crushing his fingers, bruising them. Trying to tell him something. “Driver. Star tattoo. _Run_.” He was barely sure that was what he'd heard over the siren of the ambulance, closing the last fifty metres and shrieking to a stop close by.

The victim’s eyelids fluttered shut, her hand began to relax, no longer grinding his knuckles. Relief gave way immediately to anxiety, mirrored in the expression of the young woman sharing this vigil with him.

“Erica. Erica, stay with me. Here’s the ambulance. They’re going to help you. They know what to do. Warren will come to the hospital, he’ll be there with you. _Stay with us, Erica._ ”

But he knew already that she was gone. The blood stopped gushing, the punishing grip on his hand diminished to nothing, her entire body went slack.

And his companion said it: “She’s. She’s gone.” And closed the woman’s eyes with an awkward hand.

Blood on the pavement, a hand limp in his own, a life lost. How had John borne it, that day at Barts? He didn’t even know this woman and—it was unendurable. How had John borne it, that night at Baker Street? " _Sherlock. We’re losing you_."

By now he’d been pulled away by the ambulance team, firmly but not unkindly. Doubtless they were accustomed to the cognitive collapse of bystanders who’d had to function beyond their abilities until they could turn things over to the experts.

After a few moments he remembered Warren, scanned the street for the mobile, and found it a few feet away. He put it back to his ear. How could he tell a stranger on the phone that their—spouse? partner? family member?—was dead?

In the event, he didn’t have to. He spoke Warren’s name into the mobile once, twice, over and over again, flat and neutral. No reply. The call had been ended, who knows how long ago.

On instinct he pocketed the mobile, took out his own, and called Lestrade. It was Donovan who answered.

“Sherlock Holmes here. Hit and run. I saw it. I think it was deliberate. Holborn at Southampton Row, by the tube station.”

“On my way. Wait for me there.”

The police were already there, of course, had probably arrived before the ambulance, but he’d had the strangest narrowing of focus. Nothing was right, everything out of balance and off-center. He’d called for Lestrade because—why? He tried to remember. He hadn’t really been able to see anything but the victim ( _Erica, she was Erica_ ) from the time he’d knelt beside her in the road. And before the accident he’d only seen—what? a car running a red light?

Donovan was going to want to know all of this, exactly what he’d seen, why he’d called her. Lestrade. Whatever.

And of all of them, he didn’t want to give Donovan a chance to mock him for _not seeing_.

He didn’t know how but he was sitting on the kerb now, staring at the blood in the street, so much of it, how could he have thought she could survive losing so much? The heap of mangled metal that was her bicycle—the impact that created that was the same that shattered—he couldn’t think about that, his mind veered away. 

She hadn’t died alone. Hold that thought. She’d heard a beloved voice as she went, if only on the phone. She’d had a girl touching her cheek, stroking her hair. He’d said nothing that suggested she wouldn’t survive this; he was sure he’d kept mentioning that she’d see her Warren at the hospital, that all would be well. He thought—in the event, hoped—that she was still too deeply in shock to feel the full effect of her injuries, even though he’d had to keep bearing down on the femoral bleed with a pressure that would have been unendurable had she been fully present to it.

She was young. Younger than he was, and someone loved her, and she was gone.

He looked up. Donovan was staring down at him, her usually sardonic grimace replaced by something that looked like sorrow, and pity.

She must have been asking him questions he hadn’t even heard.

“Sorry. What?”

“Why am I here? You saw something that put the wind up, and I drew the short straw for the weekend, so ... I came. What makes this something for Homicide?”

He struggled to find the words. Any words. “Give me a moment. I’m. Sorry.”

Unexpectedly she sat down next to him on the kerb. “Take your time. I heard something from the other officers on the scene, and from one witness. I’ll take some notes while you. Just. Breathe, Holmes. Breathe. And call Watson.”

That made no sense. “Why? There’s nothing he can do, here. The victim’s dead and the body’s been removed.”

Her expression went reassuringly impatient again as she said, dourly, “He can do something for _you_.”

Not wrong this time, Donovan. He reached for his own mobile again, found his last text thread with John, opened it to reply. Sunday: he’d most likely be at home with Watson.

— _John. I need you. Can you come? Holborn and Southampton Row. SH_

— _Emergency? Case?_ _JW_

— _Yes. No. I need you. SH_

— _Sit tight, I’m on my way._ _Are you injured?_ _JW_

— _No. I’ll wait._ _SH_

A tiny wave of relief lapped at the edge of his awareness. John would come. Meanwhile he had to tell Donovan about the dying woman and the call.

Surely the incongruous details would strike even her. A well-used mobile phone with only three contact numbers programmed in. A weeping voice that called the victim by two different names. Last words that seemed to be a warning: _Run_. And she’d stared at him, though he couldn’t tell how clearly she could see or whether her fixed gaze meant anything or not. 

He thought Donovan was going to excoriate him, accuse him of making up complications where there were none. But instead she nodded, asked where the phone was now, and bagged it when he brought it out of his pocket. 

She stood to go, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing once before turning away, thank God, _thank God_ , turning away before the tears began.

And then, there was John, slamming the door of a cab and striding to him, sinking to the kerb and pulling him to his chest as he had never, ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to know what readers think—via comments, or emojis, or gifs, or Morse or semaphore or any other form of code. 
> 
> But here's an actual request: if you're reading this and you also write fic, could you recommend one of your own? My motto: fic recs are oxygen, fic self-recs are champagne. 🍾 
> 
> This request isn't just for me--other readers and commenters will be glad of the self-recs! Please, pour us all a glass or two. 🥂


	2. I need you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie was napping upstairs when Sherlock’s text came and sent adrenaline surging through my bloodstream like molten metal. If he’d ever texted “I need you” before, I couldn’t remember it; I was certain he’d never summoned me and said it wasn’t for a case.

Rosie was napping upstairs when Sherlock’s text came and sent adrenaline surging through my bloodstream like molten metal. If he’d ever texted “I need you” before, I couldn’t remember it; I was certain he’d never summoned me and said it wasn’t for a case.

My shoes were on before I remembered I had a toddler asleep upstairs. _Focus, Watson. Focus. Who’s available Sunday afternoons?_

Fred next door didn't have the twins this weekend, and he adored Rosie and it was mutual. Text. No, call. Asking a favour by text is a bit shite, I’d told Sherlock that myself.

Fred was in, and free, and surprisingly excited to come over and get Rosie up from her nap and play at fitting coloured plastic shapes into a cylinder, a Christmas toy I’d expected her to outgrow quickly but the charm of which was proving surprisingly durable. He was a head taller than me, ten years younger, Jamaican, and had quite possibly the best speaking voice in London outside of 221B Baker Street. Rosie wouldn't be out of sorts at finding him there when she woke; but then, she was accustomed to being taken care of by quite a few different admirers, and was never fussed.

As Fred came in, the cab I’d called was already waiting for me. Climbing in I saw with a jolt that I’d read Sherlock’s text only eight minutes ago. With Rosie sorted I could settle in to worrying pointlessly about what was wrong, what state I was going to find him in. Not drugged again, please God. Not injured, he’d said, so I left my bag at home. Something wrong with Mycroft? At Southampton and Holborn? _For pity’s sake, Watson, stop speculating and text him again._

No answer. _Fuck_. I settled for doing some breathing exercises Ella had inflicted on me years ago, and despite my strong resistance they’d worked then and had continued to be one of my first go-to’s in stress and uncertainty ever since. Damn it.

No traffic on a Sunday in central London, outside of the shopping districts at least, and we reached the intersection from the south to find the east side taped off. A horrifyingly large pool of blood near the crossing, and Sherlock covered in it, sitting on the kerb with his head in his hands. Sally Donovan just leaving. She’d better not have anything to do with that despairing posture of his, or I’d—

I flung thirty quid at the driver, far more than the fare but he’d got me here faster than I’d dared hope. Gratified, he asked, “You want me to wait?”

As I slammed the door I shouted _yes_ and lunged for Sherlock.

He looked up and dear God, he was crying. In public, with Donovan close by. Whatever this was had to be not just dramatic but cataclysmic. Was the blood Mycroft's? Before I knew what I was doing, I’d collapsed next to him onto the kerb and pulled him to me. If he’d just lost someone, I wasn’t going to waste time asking what and who and how, or why I was there.

And with all that blood on the pavement—a soul-destroying memory—frankly I needed to feel him safe and sound as much as I wanted him to feel that I _was_ there, that he wasn’t alone. There was blood on his _face_ , for God’s sake. I held him hard and, even though he’d said he wasn’t hurt, couldn't stop myself from checking his skull for damage. 

* * * * *

He didn’t say anything when I escorted him into the cab, my hand as protective on his waist and elbow as though the blood on him had been his own. He didn’t say anything as we rode to my house, Mary’s and my house, well, Rosie’s and my house now. I wished I could take him to Baker Street, settle him in there in his own environment; but Fred wasn’t going to be free much beyond five o’clock, and I couldn’t imagine leaving Sherlock alone in the flat in this state, even just to go back and fetch Rosie over.

He still wasn’t talking when we walked through the front door to find Fred and Rosie on the floor playing—yes, with the coloured plastic shapes, nice to know I’m not a totally crap dad, I know my little girl. Sherlock didn’t look at Fred, didn’t speak to him, though they’d met before; Rosie staggered to her feet to go to him, but he moved away, motioning at the blood. Fred looked gut-punched by the state of him.

I thanked Fred with all the earnestness I could spare from the task at hand, which was to get Sherlock cleaned up and comfortable and settled as soon as I could. Fred, bless him, said, “You need a hand here? Would it help if I took Rosie over to mine, let her play with the kids for a couple of hours? They should be back in—fifteen, twenty minutes.”

So once again I passed my daughter off for Sherlock, relieved that Fred had more than once called me in to doctor the twins after hours, once at 3 a.m. even, and that was just what friends and neighbours did, it takes a village.

Rosie grumbled and whinged a bit at being whisked away next door without much attention from me or any at all from Sherlock, usually her most active interlocutor. For a moment it was uncomfortably reminiscent of the constant push-me-pull-you of my life with Mary once Sherlock returned from the dead.

Back then I’d lived in a state of near-constant guilt. No longer: Mary had left me, left us, to go back to her old life the minute it summoned her. Pretended to run for _our_ safety, Rosie’s and mine, and hers; but she’d never meant to come back to us, the evidence was incontrovertible, and in the end she’d died in Morocco in a stupidly banal mishap.

“Dull,” Sherlock had said. He was never going to forgive her for abandoning me and Rosie. “Who’d have thought a top-flight assassin would die from eating _bitter almonds_ , for God’s sake?”

Now he was hovering by the door in his filthy clothes, barely breathing against the smell of blood.

“Strip down, would you, leave your clothes here. We’ll find you something to wear for now. I’ll get the shower ready, find you some towels.”

I went upstairs and pulled out the baby bathtub insert, rubber ducks and other bath toys, and grabbed some clean towels and adult shampoo. In the hall closet there were some jogging pants and a hoodie, if not quite in his size.

He came up a moment later in just his pants, with his hands still covered in blood and red prints on his forehead from holding his head. Amazing the cabbie took us in at all, but I suppose my overpaying the first fare accounted for it.

He was still silent and stunned-looking, staring at the shower as though not quite sure how to use it.

“Listen, you okay here? Need a hand?”

Finally he seemed to connect, and said shortly, “I can just about manage indoor plumbing, thanks.”

Ah, better. Sherlock acerbic is a better sign than Sherlock catatonic.

“I’ll be downstairs—”

“Making tea. I know.”

 _Much_ better. Two snarks in a row. I went down to find a giant bin bag for his bloodstained clothes, thinking that this is what murderers must have to do after dismembering someone. In surgery we get to just throw it all away; these, we’d have to leave with Sherlock’s bombproof and ever-patient dry-cleaner.

Sherlock took longer than usual in the shower, and that’s a high bar. I was about to go up and check when he came down, his embarrassingly ill-fitting outfit covered with a wool blanket he’d taken from the guest bed. He’s—well, I can’t help it, he’s endearing in the way he has to curate his appearance, even in private, even with me.

Hot sweet tea was good for his equilibrium now, and he drank it sitting cross-legged in the large wing-chair that was practically the only piece of furniture in the house I really liked. I’d been patient, but now I wanted to hear what had happened.

“Tell me.”

Slowly, haltingly, he did. First the events; then the anomalies; finally the experience of seeing this unknown woman out of the world, fighting every step of the way to keep the blood in her ruined body even as it poured out and formed a lake around them both.

“I know you did this all the time, John. Dealt with this. But I haven’t. I’m ... used to the dead. I’ve made people die. Not many, but still. But this—I can’t—seem to get any distance on it.”

He looked down at his hands and rubbed at them as though he still saw the blood crusted in his skin, around his nails. 

This I _can_ speak to, I thought.

“You were trying to save her. You were wrist-deep in her blood. And it wasn’t even your business, let alone your job, you were just there by chance. It’s shocking to watch someone die at the best of times. But it’s harder when you’re _trying_ to stop it happening. It’ll just take some time, that's all.”

He huffed as though I was saying nothing he didn’t know; but I know him, I saw from his glances that he hadn’t thought of his paralysis in quite those terms. Well, how could he have done, shaken as he was?

We sat quietly awhile until Fred brought Rosie back, and I saw Sherlock make an effort to act normally with them while I made some dinner. He was certainly more able to talk with Rosie and hold her now that he was cleaned up; but he was still visibly off-balance, his mind elsewhere and his answers late and off-topic. It would be better to get him back to Baker Street, and Rosie and I could stay over—she was used to that, and I was off on Mondays, to balance my clinic Saturdays.

It’d been an expensive cab day so this time I called an Uber, and bundled my charges and the bin-bag into a large mini-van. Sherlock had reluctantly relinquished the blanket for a raincoat that made him look like a more than usually disheveled Columbo, and he’d had no choice but to put on his own shoes, probably ruined now, over a pair of (oh the horror) _borrowed socks_.

Baker Street was soon warm and bright, at least it always looked that way to me, and after half an hour Rosie drooped and was asleep in my arms as I took her up to her cot.

Sherlock’s mobile pinged as I came down, and he read the text and handed it to me.

— _Can you come in tomorrow at 8? I’ve got questions, some intel, and we’re summoned to the morgue at 8:45. SD_

We looked at each other, Sherlock probably deducing what Donovan’s message meant, I thinking how early I had to drag Rosie to daycare when they weren’t even expecting her on Monday.

“Mrs Hudson can probably take her in the morning, John. She’d cancel breakfast with the Queen, for Watson.”

“Stop reading my mind, it’s annoying. But thanks for that much simpler solution.”

I went downstairs to ask Mrs H, while Sherlock exchanged texts with Donovan. When I came back up he handed me his phone, gesturing for me to read through the text conversation.

— _We’ll be there. Who summoned us? SH_

— _No idea. Somebody way upstairs. SD_

— _Will_ _Lestrade be there? SH_

— _Don’t think so. This is in my court, not sure why. SD_

— _Want to ask your questions now? SH_

— _No, by the book, recorded interview. SD_

— _So you won’t be sharing any information now. SH_

— _No. By the book. You’ll have to wait like any other witness. SD_

— _Luckily for you I’m not like any other witness. SH_

— _Yeah, lucky for me. /s SD_

— _8 a.m. at NSY then. SH_

— _I live for the moment. SD_

I was a little surprised that Donovan was in charge; more surprised that the text exchange was reasonably affable; and gobsmacked that Sherlock had stooped to repeating himself to confirm our presence in the morning.

* * * * *

Blessed Mrs Hudson was up and ready for Rosie at seven, and Sherlock was right, she’d do literally anything for time alone with her. We left them ready to start the day with pancakes. I was a little envious, since a day with Sherlock didn't promise much scope for sustenance.

At NSY we were directed to an interview room where Donovan waited with a PC, ready to question Sherlock. After a moment’s uncertainty about my accompanying him, she huffed and said, “You might as well. He’s not a suspect, after all.”

Well, for fuck’s sake. I should think not. _God_ she’s annoying, even when she’s not trying to be.

Her questions about the incident were mostly factual: where Sherlock had been standing, what time it occurred, what he’d seen, what the vehicle had looked like.

“One of the witnesses said the vehicle had no number plates. Can you confirm that?”

This visibly startled Sherlock, who normally would have seen such an obvious anomaly, but had not.

It got a little more dicey when she pressed him on the exchange over the victim’s phone, and Sherlock became tense and blanked a couple of times. But he pulled it together and got the information out clearly.

“She told you to call ‘Warren,’ is that it?”

“Yes, she stammered over his name once or twice, but Warren is what she said and it was one of only three contacts listed in her mobile.” His voice was tight, not with irritation but with stress.

“Go over what you recall of the conversation, and I’ll ask clarifying questions if necessary.”

“I pressed ‘call’ and after two rings a man picked up. He said something like ‘thank God, Erica, I was starting to worry,’ and I told him it wasn’t Erica but that I was with her. That she’d been hurt and would be going to hospital soon, and wanted to hear his voice now. I asked him to try to be calm, that she shouldn’t hear him panicking. I put the mobile by her head and put the phone on speaker so she could hear him, I couldn’t hold it to her ear and still compress the wound. That’s when she said the three things I mentioned yesterday: ‘Driver. Star tattoo. Run. _Run_.’”

“You’re sure that’s what you heard? No uncertainty about any of those words?”

“No, I’m certain. She was in a very bad way, and didn’t say much, but the words she did say were quite clear.”

“Was there much ambient noise at the time?” Ah, I wouldn’t have thought of that.

“Only the sirens. Sunday afternoon, not much traffic, and someone was keeping people away from us, I could see that.” That broke my heart a bit, to think of Sherlock only able to see bits and pieces of the full-spectrum scan he usually made of the world around him.

“Can anyone confirm what you heard?”

“I’m fairly sure the young woman who was also helping heard it as I did. We didn’t speak of it, though. I’m not sure where she got to after the ambulance came—I lost sight of her.”

He was clearly both off-balance and ashamed of being so. I felt a wrench of unfamiliar pity and a quite familiar tenderness.

Donovan’s questions were clear and succinct and well-ordered. She was also professional, and in her way, kind. In spite of myself I was impressed.

“After ‘Run,’ did the victim say anything else that you could hear?”

“No. The man on the phone did, though. He kept saying ‘I love you,’ and he called the victim Heather, after calling her Erica before. I told you that yesterday. She died very shortly after.”

“Did you speak to the man again?”

“No. I didn’t really remember him or the phone at all after the victim died. But I think he knew she was dead, because the young woman with me said aloud, ‘She’s gone.’ Then we were both shifted by the medics. When I remembered about the phone, the call had ended. The time must be registered on it, though. It didn’t seem to have any damage. Heavy-duty protective cover.”

“Did you look at the phone again after the call? Examine it? Scan it for messages or recent calls or anything like that?”

“No. I was—not myself. My thinking was strangely slow. I gave you the phone without examining it. John arrived and we left shortly after.”

“And, just to confirm: you didn't call him back after.”

“No.”

Donovan ended the interview, which had taken longer than expected, and the recording. We headed to the morgue where we’d been _summoned_ , arriving half an hour late.

What we found there, waiting for us and practically tapping his umbrella on the lino with impatience, was Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and the champagne! If you're reading and you do other kinds of **fanwork** —videos, podfics, art, meta, handwork, gifs, beta, rec lists, photo edits, moodboards, and all the other things that keep us sustained—well I'd love self-recs of those too, because I'm insatiable. No pressure. Just sayin'. 
> 
> And as always, your thoughts on the current fic are my sunshine. And moonbeams. And rainbows. And all the rest of it 🌞🌝🌈


	3. No man is an island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sounded impatient, then continued, more gravely. “The Met has to investigate the vehicular homicide because it was utterly public. But in many ways it is not the real case here. We know something about why it was done, and we will share all the intelligence we have. The real case now is finding Will Simpson, ensuring his survival, and retrieving and deposing him, to bring this criminal organisation to trial. You, Sherlock, will work with Sergeant Donovan on this.”

At the sight of his brother Sherlock pulled up short and felt his brows lower in displeasure before he could assume his mask of indifference and chill his voice to sub-freezing.

“Are you responsible for this, then?”

Mycroft put on his own mask of condescending patience to answer, “Yes, and no. Let’s hear the expert reports first, then I’ll explain.” 

To Sherlock’s intense relief, Molly Hooper led them not into the autopsy room but into a small conference room with a round metal table and punishingly uncomfortable chairs. She read out the pathology report impassively, detailing the evident cause of death (exsanguination) and some of the massive secondary injuries ( _don’t don’t don’t listen_ ), before noting such collateral information as toxicology (clean), pregnancy (negative), general state of health (excellent).

Donovan read out a very short report from the scene of crime officers, who noted no evidence of any attempt to brake by the vehicle that had struck the victim, Erica Solomon. Donovan improvised her own report on witness testimony of the collision, including Sherlock’s, with the conclusion of deliberate vehicular homicide.

Sherlock looked at John, only to see him staring back with clear concern in his expression. He reached for a tone of calm control.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“Late yesterday I was informed of this tragic event by a subordinate assigned to monitoring police reports for data relevant to my office. He recognised the victim’s name: Erica Solomon. Not her real name.”

Sherlock huffed. “Obvious. Erica. Heather.” 

John and Donovan were exchanging puzzled glances, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Heather was her real name; the heather plant is a member of the family _Ericaceae_ , and ‘erica’ is the Italian word for heather.”

John looked at him fondly (Donovan, less so) and murmured, “Of course. 'Obvious.'"

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “The real questions are, why was she living under an assumed name, and how was she ‘relevant to your office?’”

With his stiffest demeanour Mycroft said, “Before I begin I must emphasise that all information shared in this meeting, including what has already _been_ said, is confidential. Not to be communicated to anyone, for any reason, without clearance.”

Only Donovan had the presence of mind to ask “clearance from whom,” and Mycroft answered, “from me personally, or from my immediate subordinate, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's eyebrows now raced toward his hairline, but he decided not to comment no matter how the word “subordinate” rankled (and it rankled _a lot_ ) _._ Getting the information was more important than making a point. 

Mycroft continued, “This woman was living undercover because she and her husband, who own a lorry firm, have collaborated with the police and my office on a case of great scope and sensitivity involving smuggling. They became aware that their lorries were being used to transport contraband, including both arms and people. They discovered this from—”

Sherlock interrupted. “Discrepancies in the bills of lading?” and felt himself flush as John again looked impressed.

Mycroft nodded shortly. “Manipulated forms in hard copy and computer documents. Meaning that someone in their firm was involved. Shortly after they raised these discrepancies in a regular staff meeting they received an unequivocal threat, and they brought the evidence to the Met, who brought it to my attention.”

Not a single person in the room, Sherlock knew, was wondering who at the Met had contacted Mycroft.

“We picked them up almost immediately, sent them underground with new names and a cover story: that they were going for a three-month stay in Spain and leaving the firm in the hands of a trusted if inexperienced employee. We didn’t want whoever was using this lorry firm to stop doing so, as it’s a very solid lead on a much larger international criminal case that’s being built even as we speak.

“Heather Simpson became Erica Solomon, and she was deposed last week. Somehow she was found out, and murdered as you know. Her spouse Will Simpson—Warren Solomon—has disappeared from their safe house. He has not yet been deposed. For his own safety, and for the evidence we need from him for this trial, you must find him, Sherlock.”

“ _I_ must? Why me?” Mycroft’s high-handedness never failed to gall him, but it was particularly untimely now.

“Because you are the best person for the job, and because you are—motivated.”

“By which you mean ‘personally affected,’ which is as much as to say ‘compromised.’ It’s as good a reason to exclude me as to involve me.” He rubbed his right arm, wondering why it ached so. 

“Very well, then. Vengeful. Driven.” Mycroft sounded impatient, then continued, more gravely. “The Met has to investigate the vehicular homicide because it was utterly public. But in many ways it is not the real case here. We know something about why it was done, and we will share all the intelligence we have. The real case now is finding Will Simpson, ensuring his survival, and retrieving and deposing him, to bring this criminal organisation to trial. You, Sherlock, will work with Sergeant Donovan on this.”

Sherlock risked a glance at Donovan, who was wearing her best poker face.

“Yes, but will she work with me?” he mused.

She answered shortly, “What do you think?”

Sherlock considered her unexpected kindness the day before and said, neutrally, “You’ll try.”

“I’ll succeed. I'm a professional. This is my job, not my hobby.”

“Yet you can’t resist the jibe, can you.” He tried to sound amused. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we.” 

Donovan looked slightly chagrined but didn’t answer that, only adding, “So do I assume that the star tattoo the victim mentioned is something that everyone in this _cri-mi-nal or-gan-i-sa-tion_ has, and that she recognised it as she was struck?”

Sherlock managed to conceal a smile at Donovan’s subtle Mycroft impression, even as his brain flinched away from the mental image evoked by her last words.

“Yes, it appears so.” Mycroft gave no sign he’d heard anything odd in her delivery.

“Where would it be? Face? Neck? Hands? Wrists? Doctor Hooper, have you ever come across something like that?”

Not bad, Sherlock thought. He’d bet that Donovan would have someone on that _instanter_ , looking up any and all cadavers with a similar marking, if indeed she hadn’t already.

“Um, no, not that I can call to mind.” Molly was looking at her watch, and indeed there’d been no reason to keep her here after her report, beyond warning her about confidentiality. (Wholly unnecessary, as the only person Molly was ever indiscreet with was Sherlock—and he had high clearance in general, and in this investigation in particular.)

“May I leave now? Only, I’ve another three autopsies to do by two p.m., and I’m running late.”

“Apologies, Doctor Hooper. I very much appreciate your celerity with this autopsy, and of course your discretion.” Mycroft’s smooth tone was typically patronising.

“I’m off too, then,” said Donovan. “Holmes, I’ll text you when I have more information about tyres, make of vehicle, all that. We'll issue a call for witnesses to the public and a bulletin to vehicle repair shops, and start database searches for the star tattoo.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” He made sure his own tone was appropriate, and reveled again in John’s approving expression.

Once the three of them were alone, Mycroft said, “There’s one more thing. If Sergeant Donovan does well on this case there’s a promotion in it for her. Gregory— Lestrade — has been urging his superiors in that direction for some time.”

Sherlock felt well and truly wrong-footed, and his irritation was audible. “So I’m to make her look good? She won’t thank either of us for that.”

“No, not at all. If she doesn’t rise to the occasion then her promotion will be postponed, that’s obvious. And she doesn’t know any such thing is at stake for her in this case. All she knows is that the real case is William Simpson, and she assumes—has been led to assume—that containment of that information is why we chose her to lead the investigation, as the officer at the scene yesterday. Her discretion about all sensitive details is essential.”

“ _Discretion_?” repeated John carefully, and just as carefully Sherlock adopted a neutral expression.

Mycroft leveled his most repressive stare at John, then said to Sherlock, “She’s learned something, Sherlock. So have you. Please take this case utterly seriously. Hundreds of lives depend upon our being able to make this case fool-proof. Thousands of lives, perhaps. And in your private ear: this entire case is politically sensitive, and in the current climate we cannot afford for the organised trafficking piece to go public until we can control the narrative about exactly who in _this_ country is responsible for it.”

Sherlock knew a diplomatic understatement when he heard it, and he knew that Mycroft was counting on him to interpret this as “someone in government would love to hijack this and spin it to their advantage.”

It might not matter to the job at hand: to find Will Simpson, to secure his safety and his evidence. But it was certainly a feature of interest.

* * * * *

John had been shooting him concerned looks since they’d left the morgue, adding an uncomfortable tension to the ride back to Baker Street. Before Sherlock could get impatient enough to snap at him, he asked,“How are you? Are you ... okay with taking this case?”

It was a sign that he was still mired in the emotional quicksand of yesterday that he didn’t snap now, at the questions. John was right to ask. He himself had always said that caring blurred his acuity, slowed him down. And they both knew that he had been stunned into stupefaction by the experience of the day before. He’d asked for John, and John had come at once, and taken care of him as capably and sensitively as ever, and more solicitously than usual. Snapping at him now would be a _bit_ not good.

“I take your point. There are several good reasons to think I should leave it to someone else.”

John smiled quietly. “Not least, the dubious allure of working with Donovan.”

He smiled back. “I’m not worried, there. She’s cooperative enough now, and if Lestrade’s been angling to get her promoted, she must have become a great deal more competent than when you met her. No, it’s the—the memory of Erica, Heather, suffering, and having only me there, and her last thought being her husband’s safe—”

But he couldn’t finish the word, felt his throat closing painfully around tears _again_. And again his right arm throbbed, and he rubbed it helplessly, then felt John’s hand closing without any discernible hesitation, not around his shoulder or elbow or bicep, but around his hand.

“I can’t think of a better man to help a dying person, Sherlock. She couldn’t have known how lucky she was. You _helped_ her, you didn’t go to pieces. You kept calm and you gave her hope. And although she died, she got the smartest man in the city to help her husband.

"I know this hurts. Worse than hurts: it fucking _sucks_. If you do no more than what you did yesterday, you’ll still have done more than almost anyone else could have.”

It wasn’t helping, what John said. What helped was his hand in Sherlock’s, and the warmth in his voice, and knowing even before John said so, that he would be there too.

And indeed, John made it explicit. “If you take this case, I’ll be there. Rosie and I’ll move in, and I’ll get someone in to mind her full time, one way or another. I’ll let the clinic know I’m taking emergency leave.”

Well, that did it, didn’t it. Again tears welled up in Sherlock’s eyes and he turned to hide them. There was no emergency here, none but his need to have John close as long as this benumbed and volatile state lasted.

* * * * *

The hours began to run into each other, and then the days. The dual focus of the Simpson case—finding Will, and finding Heather’s killers before they found Will—made for a more complex puzzle than usual. Working _with_ a Met team rather than in conflict or competition with one—that was unfamiliar as well.

Finding that Donovan could be relied on not merely to execute instructions but to contribute ideas and help clarify his own—that was astounding, as his expectations had been modest. She could assemble facts quickly into an economical hypothesis and then, instead of cleaving to it stubbornly, she could invert it, revise it, and discard it.

On Tuesday afternoon, two days after Heather’s death, they had a false alarm in the form of an unidentified corpse in the river, corresponding to Will Simpson’s age and description. Dead by violence, not drowning.

Again Sherlock fell into something like catatonia. He’d failed Heather entirely, then. Not just failed to stanch her bleeding; failed to save what was most precious to her. Failed to collect the testimony that might save hundreds of lives in the future. He couldn’t speak, just left the chaotic sitting room and went into the shower fully clothed and let the water run over him while he screamed inside. Only inside.

Within an hour Donovan was back on the phone, elation and relief in her voice. “It isn’t him. Dental records don’t match, blood type doesn’t match. It isn’t him.”

John had hugged him, he’d hugged back, and the chase was on again. Wednesday they had a promising lead on a cottage rented late Sunday night in the South Downs. Description matched, the guest had arrived without a car and paid in cash, had holed up in the cottage and hadn’t been seen since.

But it wasn’t Will, and over the next days as lead after lead after lead came in, it was never him.

* * * * *

Watson was mostly downstairs with Mrs Hudson and the temporary nanny, but when she came up to 221B all other activity ceased for half an hour. The shift of focus was, unexpectedly, advantageous for clarity. Sherlock knew that it only worked because John timed those two or three daily visits very carefully.

Sherlock was learning something new on this double case. He’d always thought that absolute, undiluted concentration had been a prerequisite for deductive reasoning, had even refused food and sleep to maintain focus while on cases. How cuttingly, how dismissively, he used to mock John’s attempts to make him slow down for rest or a meal.

This case was different. There were people in and out at all hours, not just Watson, John, and Hudders, but Donovan’s junior PC Chantal liaising with Donovan in the incident room at NSY, Mycroft once or twice, Lestrade once, Donovan on video conference twice daily and incessantly via text. There was an incident wall like Donovan’s over at NSY, but for the Will Simpson case. Will’s brother even came to 221B to be interviewed (it was John who remembered to cover up the murder wall before he arrived).

And Sherlock wasn’t being driven insane by all these people, at all. Indeed, he was thinking better for the varied input and task types. The shifts in focus. The dialogue. He still wasn’t polite, he knew that from John’s occasional wince or flash of annoyance. But he didn't feel like being contemptuous or cruel, either. 

He came to an awareness of Watson clinging to his trouser leg and tugging, saying his name more and more loudly. (Was it already time for her?) He stared at her without seeing, waiting for someone to take her away. Then he heard, as audible and plain as equipment at the optometrist’s, a metallic _click_ as his vision focused. This was John’s daughter—he didn’t _want_ her taken away.

He inserted a mental bookmark into his sequence of thought and picked her up, swung her round, smiled at her squeal and stepped into the hallway for a furtive hug and a murmured endearment. She was delighted at having got his attention.

Suddenly there was John in the doorway, looking bemused. Had he heard that whispered “darling girl”? God, he hoped not, he’d never hear the end of it. In any event John just took Watson downstairs for her supper, Mrs Hudson following them down.

It was a different way of working, but the stakes were too high to do otherwise. He couldn’t afford to sacrifice a single advantage, and the Met’s immense resources, dwarfed by Mycroft’s even more _flexible_ capacities, required him to collaborate. This wasn’t a sadistic duel in the dark, like Moriarty’s “great game.” This was a legal, humanitarian, and ethical imperative with no time to waste.

John was there, encouraging, running interference, occasionally consoling even before Sherlock knew he needed solace. And it was John—conductor of light—who put together two entirely unrelated pieces of data and asked,

“Look here, is this something to do with that UKIP lot? Could one of them have gone rogue? Hooked up with this smuggling mafia to discredit—I don’t know, the EU or something?”

The centrifugal shards whirling in Sherlock’s brain suddenly coalesced into a perfectly coherent picture and he punched Donovan’s speed-dial, talking faster than she could decipher, he knew. _So: breathe._

“It’s a government car, Sergeant. It’s a _government_ car, of course it won’t have been repaired in a commercial facility, we’ve been wasting precious time checking all of those. In fact it might not have been repaired at all yet, just garaged in a depot until this all blows over. Find the driver with the star tattoo among the _government_ fleet staff authorised to drive vehicles from the _government_ car pool. Mycroft’s lot can do it discreetly.”

Donovan's whoop could be heard downstairs in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.

* * * * *

It was a breakthrough, but it didn’t help his own search for Will Simpson. It promised concrete evidence for the Crown Prosecutor, and certainly for a new, collateral homicide case. But time was running out to find Will, who had used no bank card, no internet account, no VPN, no cell phone associated with either of his identities, and how _that_ was possible when he must have been desperate for at least news reports about Heather’s death was maddeningly unclear.

When John asked, gently, if finding Will was still essential to the Crown case now that a link was established between Heather’s death and the government personnel colluding with the smuggling gang, he could only answer, “It’s all I can do for her.”

And even in that moment of wretched misery, near despair, John’s helplessly fond smile and—yes—another hug, gave him a rush of warmth.

With the murder weapon located and the murderer identified, Donovan came round to ask about making an arrest. She’d understood of course that she could not do so without seriously hobbling Mycroft’s undertaking.

“But I can’t keep an entire murder squad quiet, or idle. What’s next?”

When Lestrade showed up soon after, Sherlock was pressing the point that her team could now dedicate all their time to tracking down leads on Will Simpson. And once again, what loosened the knot was not the frenetic ratiocination of a genius working in lofty isolation, but a casual comment by an outside voice.

“We’ve looked all over the UK, and he didn’t leave the country using the fake Warren Solomon passport or his own. What if he never even left London?”

He stared at Lestrade, and from somewhere far off and long ago the words _where else could they be so well-concealed?_ echoed in his brain. Well-concealed. Will Simpson owned a small fleet of lorries with, apparently, concealed compartments in at least some of them, for carrying contraband _or people_. What if he’d gone no farther than his own garage?

Christ, he was a _moron_ , he’d no business practising this profession or any other. Donovan set her two best computer wizards to hacking into the Simpson Enterprises system, to find out whether any of their lorries was out of commission for repair, garaged somewhere since the Sunday of Heather’s death. Since there’d been no public link between the death of Erica Solomon and Simpson Enterprises, they couldn’t walk up to the business and ask, not without alerting the gang member in Will’s staff.

Within an hour they had the answer: one lorry had been out of commission for the past two weeks, waiting on a spare part from China. It was garaged on the Simpson firm’s premises in an industrial estate in southwest London, near Heathrow.

Shortly after business hours, Sherlock, John, and a clutch of officers led by Donovan were at the garage, not exactly breaking but definitely entering, complete with cliché torches and dark clothing. They identified the vehicle by its number plate and surrounded it. On the chance that Will might recognise his voice from that terrible call last Sunday, Donovan had Sherlock call out,

“Will Simpson, the Metropolitan police are here, for your protection. Please come out. You’re safe and will remain so.”

A moment or two while the man inside considered whether it was true, whether he would ever be safe again, with his entire world destroyed. Perhaps he decided it no longer mattered. In any case, after a couple of muffled clicks the manual door of the lorry rumbled open to reveal a visibly exhausted blond man with a hopeless stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the self-recs and comments so far! It's been a treat to be walking through the list of fics in the comments on Ch. 1. 
> 
> If you feel inspired to share some oxygen--could you rec one favorite short fic by someone else? Say, 3–5K words? Sometimes that's all life leaves us time or bandwidth for, and a go-to list can be a great shortcut. 
> 
> No obligation, of course, and no hurry. When and if you can. 🐝


	4. Caring is an advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The way you talked with that poor man, Sherlock. The way you cared about his wife. You always ... wanted me to think you couldn’t care about people that way. Why did you hide that part of yourself away?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a podfic of Casualty by the matchless Podfixx:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035497/chapters/57831493  
> Oh frabjous day!

I didn’t know whether Will Simpson recognised Sherlock’s voice from inside his hiding place, but then I wasn’t sure I recognised it either: careful, and reassuring, and so kind. This wasn’t the triumphant, imperious tone I’d so often heard at the end of a draining case successfully solved.

Simpson, pale and stiff, climbed carefully down from the lorry to the garage floor. The many uniformed officers and their lack of guns seemed to reassure him that this was neither a trap nor an arrest, and he regained a bit of colour. Donovan went to him with Sherlock to explain, in a low voice, that he was to be taken to another safe house for an initial interview, and that he was required to stay there under police escort. Further interviews and a first deposition would be scheduled for the next morning.

To my surprise Donovan called me over.

“Doctor Watson, can you come along to examine Mr Simpson, verify his state of health? In confidence, of course.”

I could have asked for nothing better, and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

At the safe house—a small row house in Camden Town that stood out only for being utterly nondescript—I gave Will Simpson a basic exam. Apart from mild dehydration, his physical condition was good enough. His state of mind, though, was pitiable.

In the person of Will Simpson both cases converged: the smuggling and the murder. Donovan questioned him first, but she seemed to be focusing on the smuggling operation.

According to Simpson, Heather had never wanted to do anything illegal with their freight business: she wanted things strictly on the up and up, and since she kept the books, they were. Will, however, had seen an opportunity for just a _little_ extra income, nothing immoral, just technically illegal: small quantities of alcohol and tobacco brought in without excise from the continent, along with his declared merchandise. He’d never smuggled more than 75 kilos, since lorry scales are accurate only to about 100 kilos, and the weights recorded on arrival needed to match those on the bills of lading, on departure. 

Once they’d noticed that the weights _didn’t_ match, and were moreover being altered after the fact, they’d turned to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. They’d no idea that there were bigger fish to fry until Mycroft’s office got involved, plucked him and Heather unceremoniously from their normal lives, and thrust them into an undercover existence. When they protested, they were given a thorough and terrifying briefing about the large and ruthless organisation which had infiltrated Simpson Enterprises—and many lorry firms. The star tattoo received particular emphasis, and the fate of those who’d run afoul of it. 

Simpson had had all too long to think all this through. It was his fault, he said: the builder he’d hired to install those compartments in his lorries must have given his name to the criminal gang. If Will hadn’t got greedy, Heather would still be alive.

When he began to weep, choking on these words, Sherlock gave Donovan a glance and took over.

“You mustn’t think that. You didn’t kill her: a ruthless murderer did. I ... was there.”

Will looked up, startled. So he hadn’t recognised Sherlock’s voice. “You—when she died?”

“Yes. I was a bystander, and” (steadying his voice) “rendered assistance at the scene. I’m the one who called you on her mobile.”

At this Will broke down altogether, and I couldn’t blame him. I know the guilt of losing someone because you think you failed them. I was bracing myself to step in, but Sherlock had it covered: a hand on Will’s shoulder, his low voice saying gentle and soothing words. He was—amazing.

“You must remember that you _were there with her_ , at the end. She got to hear your voice. She was badly hurt, but she heard you speak when your safety was _all_ she was thinking about.”

I'm sure he meant this to be consoling, but on top of the guilt, I think, it made Simpson cry all the harder. Sherlock looked puzzled and pained, glanced at me, and took Will’s hand in his.

“Will. I’m sorry. I know this is hard. I can’t imagine _how_ hard, but please. Understand that she didn’t have time to suffer, she—went very quickly, and she went hearing your voice, the voice of the person she loved most in all the world. We could all wish that for ourselves, surely.”

That made me gasp. I knew Sherlock was thinking of himself standing on the roof at Barts, his phone to his ear, uncertain that he actually would survive that desperate jump or the undercover life that came after; he was thinking of me after his “death,” bereft of him and blaming myself; he was thinking of Will, of Heather, of what he could possibly say to a man who had lost his wife to such grisly violence.

Will was sobbing, and I could just make out, “We were everything to each other. No kids, hardly any family. She was everything to me.”

This was devastating. I could barely stand to see this man’s pain, yet Sherlock was so solicitous, so compassionate with him. Anyone who’d thought him cold, had thought dead wrong.

Sherlock looked my way, and something in my expression made him flush and look away again. What he saw, I was sure, was precisely what I was feeling: desperate love.

* * * * *

We got back to 221B well after 1 a.m., and Sherlock was knackered. We both were, but I was also jittery, far too wound up to consider going to bed. The flat was dark, and Rosie was sleeping downstairs with Mrs H and the nanny, and I was going to take advantage of the privacy to start a conversation. It might not go well, but it seemed urgent and, in a way, hopeful.

I put the kettle on and turned to see Sherlock holding a bottle of bourbon: a much better plan. I put ginger, lemon, and honey into the teapot, and poured a shot of the bourbon into each of our mugs. The best of hot tea _and_ hard liquor, and for what I was about to say, I needed it.

He’d lit the gas fire, and when I brought the toddies in we settled into our chairs, him sprawling in exhaustion, me upright with anxiety, but determined.

Start gradually. “Well done, you. That was—extraordinary.”

He looked thoughtful, not jubilant. “Most definitely a group effort. Perhaps the largest of my experience.”

“Yes, of course. So many man-hours. Person-hours. What did you think of Donovan in this role, anyway?”

He smiled. “She definitely did rise to the occasion. You?”

“Oh, I. Agree. I didn’t know you two had it in you.” I lifted my glass in a mock-toast.

“Well. I was pleasantly surprised.” He imitated my gesture, then sipped tentatively at the hot mixture.

“I’ll tell you what else I didn’t know you had in you.” I was pleased with the smooth segue, but I still felt nervous bringing it up.

“What?”

“The way you talked to that poor man, Sherlock. The way you cared about his wife. You always ... wanted me to think you couldn’t care about people that way. Why did you hide that part of yourself away?”

He didn’t look at me, stared into the fire instead. There was electricity in the air, though. I could feel the quiver of it across the hearthrug, feel myself resonating to it.

When he spoke, though, he said only, “You’re one to talk.”

“Me? I’m not Mister ‘Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake, then.’”

“No indeed. You’re Mister ‘I’m not gay.’”

Boom. Well, thank God he’d said it, as I might have lost my nerve.

“I think I was ... protecting myself, Sherlock. From loving someone who said he couldn’t love anyone. From losing my heart to someone who said he didn’t have one to give back.”

He looked at me, then. Considering. “That was a long time ago, John.”

“Right. A lot of water under the bridge since then. Not all of it good. But, Sherlock. I have to tell you.” I paused, for so long he had to prod me.

“What, exactly?”

"I don't believe that you don't have a heart. That you can't care. That you _don't_ care," I replied. "I know you can, and you do. And, so, maybe I don't need to protect myself from loving you. Because I do. Love you. I always have. I haven’t always been honest about it, even with myself. But I always have."

This whole time I was staring down at the mug in my hands.

"Maybe that's not what you want from this. From us. And that's fine," I hastened to add. "It's all fine.” 

Funny: it felt like my whole life was in the balance—he might react in any one of a dozen ways, I might have ruined everything, shredded our careful balance forever—and all I felt was relief. At not hiding anymore, not pretending.

I looked up. And saw mirrored in his eyes the same feeling I knew he saw in mine.

He set his mug down beside his chair and stood, hesitated a moment. Then he took two steps and stopped in front of me. Bent down as I reached up, and murmured in my ear, “Me too, John. Me too. For longer than I can remember.”

“Then—” No more words were necessary. I took his face in my hands and kissed him, gently at first and then more fiercely as he braced himself on the arms of my chair and then climbed into my lap and kissed me until we were both breathless.

He pulled back and quirked an eyebrow at me, and when I nodded, he got up and held out a hand. I was no longer too wound up, and Sherlock no longer too knackered, to consider going to bed. 

* * * * *

It was perfect, and it was messy, and unpractised, and we laughed a fair amount. I felt like Pygmalion when his statue came to life, the miracle he hadn’t even dared to pray for. I felt what I _wish_ I’d felt when Sherlock came back from the dead—wonderment, joy, overwhelming love—instead of all the devastation and anger and hurt that came out in my fists that night. And after.

He was beautiful. He _is_ beautiful. When he stood there in the buff, held my head in his hands as he breathed me in and kissed me for minutes on end, I realised all that he’d been holding in all this time, and all that I’d been holding in too. When I finally, clumsily, got my kit off, he looked at me like a starving man to whom they’ve opened the whole of Fortnum and Mason’s: wanting, not believing, not daring.

I’ve never been particularly shy about nudity, but his desiring stare made me feel like Mister Sodding Universe. I didn’t even mind exposing the scar, something that has made me wince with every partner since Afghanistan. But him. My lord, he was a picture of perfection, Michelangelo’s David down to his large hands and perfect arse. And my heart was pounding out of my chest as I reached for him, my hands sliding down his biceps and forearms, shifting to his hips, dear God, his hips.

His eyes closed and he moaned almost under his breath, leaned in, and said only, “John. Please.”

From the day I met him we had our own wordless speech, and it served us well until it didn’t. In this situation, however, it was flawlessly clear and expressive: I knew what he wanted, he knew what I wanted, there was no need to negotiate with words the transition from a devoted friendship to a passionate—oh hell there was no word for it anyway, words have never sufficed for what Sherlock was and is to me.

His natural pallor made his cock stand out—ruddy, long, taut and eager—and I reached for it greedily but also tenderly. My first, lightest touch made him again gasp and sag against me, bringing his arms up to my shoulders as I brought us flush together, erections brushing and then rubbing and the intensity of it was unbearable, ridiculous, we had barely started touching and I was afraid I wouldn’t last half a minute longer.

I pulled back and said, “Please, can we slow down. Let’s not rush it, our first time. I want to feel you, _taste you_ , all over, make you feel how much I want you.”

He was shaking with need but he nodded, he trusted me, he always has even when I haven’t deserved it; but I intended to earn it this time, make this the best first time he’d ever had with anybody. If— _slam that door. It’s not helpful, right at the minute. Just me and Sherlock, now, and here_.

Somehow we got ourselves to the bed and sat down, then I laid him out and straddled his thighs and drank in the sight of him as he did of me. Every touch, every stroke over his chest and collarbones and sides, every kiss to his throat or nipple, was a declaration of love and he felt it. I saw that in his eyes welling up, his eyelids fluttering closed. I felt it in his changed breathing. And when I lowered my mouth to take him in I tasted it, smelled it, I heard it in his cries and there was nothing between me and Sherlock anymore, nothing to part or hurt us. I’d finally told him the truth, and I’d finally seen his. 

He came clutching me and calling my name, reduced now to just that one syllable, and he didn’t even take a moment to collect himself but pushed me onto the bed in turn, taking my bollocks, then my cock, in hands and mouth both reverent and avid. No words, not even my name, but that gorgeous voice in a constant nonverbal vocalisation, urging and summoning me until light broke out behind my eyelids and I felt myself disintegrating in his arms, his mouth.

When I woke we were wrapped around each other without a millimetre of space between us. It was warm (and rather sticky), it was ridiculous, and it was novel. And yes, it was perfect. He was awake, those changing eyes an intense green against his sage-coloured sheets. With him in my arms there was nothing to say: just lean in and kiss him good morning for the very first time.

* * * * *

In the afternoon we reconvened to debrief at NSY: Mycroft, Donovan and Lestrade, Sherlock and me.

I knew Mycroft would read the two of us like an open book, but I’d no idea that even Lestrade would grin when he saw us come in. Donovan’s eyes widened and then she looked away, lips quirking. So much for our attempt at nonchalance.

“ _No_ , Mycroft,” said Sherlock, as if his brother were an ill-behaved dog about to bark.

Mycroft subsided, and we got on with it. Lestrade was there mainly to note down the accolades the elder Holmes gave to Donovan, or so it seemed to me.

“Thanks to your excellent teamwork, Sergeant Donovan, Sherlock, the CPO now has what they need. The security breach which resulted in Heather Simpson’s death has been sealed and Mister Simpson is safe. We have new information about the _contaminant_ in the government and will pursue that lead aggressively. Mrs Simpson’s murder will be a separate if related criminal case, for which you Sherlock will be one of four witnesses.”

Sherlock nodded. He looked pale again, under the, well, stubble burn.

Mycroft droned on, listing the many merits of Donovan’s performance while she fidgeted. Only when he said, “Any of Her Majesty’s services would be enhanced by your participation in their endeavours, Sergeant,” did her appearance change—from discomfiture to outright alarm.

“Thank you, sir. Very kind. And now, if you all can excuse me.” She couldn’t get out of the room fast enough, and I couldn’t blame her. I knew what it was like to be kidnapped by Mycroft.

“And you, Sherlock. This was a uniquely sensitive case, and you outdid yourself.”

Sherlock frowned a bit, and said, “Again, it _was_ a group effort. And it still beggars belief that my presence at the scene was a coincidence. I almost went to the Wallace Collection instead of to the concert at St Paul’s, in which case I’d never have been anywhere near the scene.”

“Indeed. The universe is rarely so lazy—but one time in a million even the universe must take a rest, yield to crass casualty. In any case, thank you, and thank _you_ Doctor Watson for putting everything else on hold to assist him with it.”

Lord, was there no end to the man’s pomposity? “Of course, Mycroft. It goes without saying.”

He literally smirked, the bastard, and said, “Yes, I rather think it does.”

Perhaps it was to distract him from this line of innuendo that Sherlock intervened. “You said that I would be ideal for this case because I was motivated. Vengeful. You wouldn’t know anything about that yourself, I suppose.”

Mycroft looked pensive. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps. Once or twice. When circumstances warranted.”

Suddenly he began to seem nervous. To overtalk. “Not as an end in itself, of course. Not if there was no other advantage to be secured beyond ... satisfaction.”

These caveats weren’t that interesting to me, but Sherlock jerked his head up and stared at Mycroft in that way he had when _they_ were communicating without words. And Mycroft, of course stared back.

“But revenge is a _bitter_ dish, Mycroft, isn’t it.” Sherlock was pinning his brother with a fixed gaze, speaking slowly and spacing his words oddly.

“Very bitter indeed. And as they say, best served _quite_ cold.” The tone was light, but the undertone—that was quite dark.

I gave up. Whatever these two were saying in their weird brother-code, it was going over my head. And I had _so_ many better things to think of at the moment, to plan and to execute. Such as what I was going to do to Sherlock as soon as I got him back to the flat. Oh, I had a whole menu set up for that. At this hour the Jubilee line would get us there much faster than a cab. And we could press close together without attracting the least notice.

I stood briskly, breaking the tension between them. “We should get back. Mrs Hudson must be ready for a rest from nonstop Rosie. Goodbye, Mycroft, don’t call again too soon, if you please. Ready, Sherlock?”

“Ready, John.”

We left Mycroft and Lestrade there in the lurid fluorescent light of New Scotland Yard with its dreary grey lino and mint green walls. I took Sherlock’s hand, and we went out into the gathering dusk to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, gentle readers, for reading this, and Anyawen, whose inspiration it is. Thank you Anyawen for "winning" this, prompting it, betaing it, improving it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reccing fics, your own and others'. How generous you are to stock the larder with new things to read! There's never a shortage in this fandom, quite the opposite. But I'm assuming from your comments on _Casualty_ an overlap in tastes and preferences that will give a nice shortcut to both the champagne _and_ the oxygen. Thank you for reading, commenting, reblogging & sending comments on Tumblr...and for all the fandom creativity and community.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Casualty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035497) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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